


Je Dois Partir

by Silent_So_Long



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:24:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silent_So_Long/pseuds/Silent_So_Long
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel sends Dean and Sam to investigate a haunting in the UK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je Dois Partir

**Author's Note:**

> The following fic is written for the [worldwide_spn](http://worldwide-spn.livejournal.com) challenge. I chose to write about England, because that’s where I’m from and my chosen town was Boston, in Lincolnshire. I actually live near to Boston and also studied at college there, many years ago. The campus I mentioned in this fic, the Sam Newsom Music Centre, is real and it did used to be a grain mill before it was renovated. The myth I used for this fic is also real, although I did modify some aspects of it to fit the purposes of this fic. There was a man who worked at the grain mill before it was the Sam Newsom Centre, who was killed via a rope around his neck, although from what I can remember of the myth, it was actually an accident rather than a suicide. His body was found hanging over where the music technician’s office now is. There is no evidence that the man was French; that was just something I made up for the purposes of this fic, neither did the man’s wife desert him. I did add some things into the story that actually happened to me and my friends at the college and these include seeing the seal in the River Witham that runs past the Sam Newsom Centre, hearing footsteps in a floor above us while we were rehearsing for a show and seeing the handle move on our practice room door. When we looked outside there was no one there.  
> Title comes from a song by Megadeth, A Tout Le Monde. The lyrics at the beginning of this fic also come from the same song, and are referenced throughout the fic.
> 
>  **Additional work/works:** [art](http://metallikirk.livejournal.com/108515.html) by me, MetalliKirk.

~*~*~*~

A tout le monde,  
A tout mes ami,  
Je vous aime,  
Je dois partir

(trans. To all the world  
and all my friends,  
I love you all,  
I must leave)

A Tout Le Monde - Megadeth

~*~*~*~*~

Dean stood alone by an English river, feeling out of place in a town that was not in his own country. Despite being initially curious as to what England was like, he’d not been prepared for the utter alienness of it, of the displacement of being one of only a few Americans in the entire town. Despite the environs bearing the very familiar name of Boston, the English Boston was so unlike the much larger one situated in Massachusetts back home. Dean was surprised to note, however, that like the Boston in the US, the English equivalent also had a harbour and docks, albeit on a much smaller scale, which dealt in a healthy fishing trade.

Dean shuddered slightly as the murky, silt-laden river moved below, current of the water slowly drawing towards the sea only a few miles distant. The day wasn’t cold; instead, it was quite hot, the sun beating down upon the elder Winchester’s head as he stared at the river and the buildings that surrounded him. Instead, his shivers had been induced by the thoughts that flittered through his mind, of what could be hidden within the depths of the river below. He’d always been fascinated by water, by rivers, lakes and the sea alike, yet he knew what horrors could lurk within their sodden depths. He’d seen the evidence with his own eyes on plenty of occasions and killed most of them with his own two hands one way or another. He only hoped that whatever he’d been brought here for wasn’t coming from the water, especially that water. It was too brown and murky to harbour anything good.

He turned and looked towards the town, wondering if there was anywhere good to eat within the bustling vibrant humanity. As if in agreement, his stomach growled in protest. He checked his memory for what little he knew of Boston, and found that none of the information provided by Castiel and Sam combined had included fast food joints or even anywhere he could buy a drink. He struggled to bring up the name of the county they were in and finally remembered it was somewhere called Lincolnshire.

It had been at Castiel’s insistence that they come here to the UK, insistent that another of the 66 seals would fall if they weren’t in attendance, bringing the apocalypse that one step closer to completion. No matter how much Dean wanted to get the job done, and also see a country that was not his own, he still didn’t want to leave his beloved car behind. It had been at Bobby’s insistence that he would look after the damn thing that Dean had agreed, knowing that Bobby was pretty much the only person other than Sam that Dean trusted to look after his car.

Movement caught his eye, and he looked down towards the surface of the water. To his surprise, he saw the sleek rounded head of a seal cutting through the silt-laden water, heading towards the town itself from the direction of the docks. Silence reigned then, as Dean watched the seal swimming on, caught in a timeless bubble of man alone with nature. Then that perfect silence was broken by the seal moving on, soon disappearing to sight, although not from Dean’s enraptured memory. It was not often he got the chance to see a wild animal that was not intent on killing him.

Dean then turned back towards the building that soared overhead. The Sam Newsom Music Centre was once a grain mill during the 17th century, or so Sam had managed to find out via the internet. It had supplied grain and flour to the masses, transported by the docks situated nearby, ferried around the country via ships sailing the coast. It had brought prosperity to the town, alongside the thriving fishing community among other trades along the trade route. Dean had tuned out the majority of the flow of informational jargon by the time that Sam reached something about bananas and pineapples, and people hiding aboard the ship’s cargos to enter the country illegally. That was of little consequence to Dean, who mostly had wanted to know what manner of monster they were going to kill.

It seemed the monster wasn’t actually a monster at all, per se, but rather a lovelorn ghost. It had been Castiel that had first told them that the dead were rising all over, which was nothing new to either Sam nor Dean. It seemed as though this particular dead rose for the sake of love, roused into deathly wakefulness by the beginning of the Apocalypse and the hope of redeeming his pain and finding his lost love again. It was when Sam had started revealing the details of various murders in the vicinity, unexplained and quite likely linked to the ghost that Dean had stood and demanded that Castiel mojo their asses over to England post-haste so they could gank themselves a ghostie. It went against everything that Dean stood for to not rise to the occasion and save nubile young women from death. Sam had chuckled over Dean’s sudden enthusiasm over that one, especially when he’d gotten excited over the fact that college students were involved. Dean himself had tried to ignore the prerequisite coughed “jail-bait” comment from Sam.

Dean was wrested out of his reverie of the past day by a slender hand laying upon Dean’s shoulder, long fingers gripping tightly, slightly painful through even the thickness of Dean’s leather jacket. Dean turned sharply, almost bumping noses with Castiel, also known as the angel who seemed not to know about personal space, at least when it came to Dean’s personal space.

Dean swallowed, throat bobbing harshly and said - “Hey, Cas.”

He didn’t protest against the closeness of the angel, all too used to it by now and he knew that to remark upon it would not do a lick of good anyway. Castiel seemed to particularly ignore certain facts sometimes.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replied, deep voice resonant even in the traffic ridden great outdoors.

Student chatter came from nearby as a small crowd of music students lugged various instruments into the converted grain mill nearby. They seemed happy and alive, laughing faces shining above guitar cases, violin cases, even a sturdy case of a tuba in one student’s case. Dean had to smile at that, wondering what it must be like to live the life of an English college student, to be able to have the time and patience to learn musical instruments, singing, instead of the harder life of being a hunter.

“Sam is waiting for you inside,” Castiel said, not seeming to notice Dean’s unusual quietness and thoughtfulness.

Dean nodded, to Castiel and followed the tan coated angel inside the building. The air inside was cool and strangely musty, dim light lending a mysterious air to what should have been a welcoming reception area. A flight of stairs led upwards directly in front of the glass panelled front door, while a corridor led off to their left, and another door bisected the wall beside the flight of stairs.

Castiel cast a glance around him, dark blue eyes narrowed slightly as his angelic senses sought a presence within the building, something ominous that pressed down upon his Grace and inhibited it. Beside him, Dean shuddered and cast an uneasy glance around, catching the angel’s disturbed glare, and pursed lips.

“You feeling that, too, right?” Dean asked, just to make sure.

“If you are talking about the oppressive atmosphere in here, then yes, I am aware of it,” Castiel confirmed, deep voice travelling through the hushed silence of the downstairs.

A couple of teachers bustled through, chatting amiably, yet neither paid any attention to either Dean nor Castiel. Castiel remained as unruffled as ever, yet Dean looked disturbed. He had the overbearing feeling that they weren't wanted there, that they shouldn’t even be in the building.

“Dean, Cas,” Sam said, as he made his way through a door that led off the main reception area. “Come through here.”

Dean harrumphed out a response, yet Castiel remained typically silent., following the elder hunter through the doors after Sam. They found themselves in yet another dim room, flanked by an office on the right and a bank of student’s lockers on the left. Rehearsal rooms were in front of them, yet Sam led them to what apparently used to be the building’s library, according to Sam’s gleeful monologue. Again, Dean merely grunted uninterested in former layouts of a college building.

“This where the murder took place?” Dean asked, as he followed Sam into the former library, glancing up at the massive whiteboard that dominated one wall and the upright piano that remained still and silent for the time being.

“Yeah. Look at that,” Sam said, as he pointed to the whiteboard, with one large hand.

Scrawled upon the surface were the words - Je dois partir - in lurid red marker pen, or what Dean hoped was red marker pen. He knew better than to ask the question whether it was a student playing pranks. Even though he’d spent as much time out of school as in it when he was of that age, and dropped out far earlier than Sam had done, he knew just as well as Sam did how the majority of students hazed people, just for kicks and giggles. The apparent splash of blood that decorated the wall beside the board indicated that no pranks had occurred here.

Sam watched as Dean squinted at the French scrawl upon the whiteboard, frown creasing the skin between the hunter’s brows. Castiel moved forward to stare up at the writing also, large eyes blinking slowly as he did so. The angel’s hands visibly flexed in the coats of his pockets and he turned, frown marring his usually smooth forehead, gaze scanning the room warily.

“Did you feel that?” he asked, deep voice almost angry. “Something’s here, with us.”

Sam’s mouth turned down at the corners as he shrugged expansively at the angel, before he said - “I didn’t feel anything.”

“Cas is right,” Dean agreed, sounding very distracted right then. “I felt it too. Felt like something brushed right up against me.”

Castiel turned his gaze upon Dean then, trust implicit in his eyes, even as he tipped his head towards the elder hunter in thanks for the back-up. Why it mattered to Castiel, considering he was far more powerful than Sam and Dean combined, Dean didn’t know, yet still he smiled at the gesture anyway. It seemed as though even an awkward angel needed acceptance sometimes too.

“Any idea what this shit says?” Dean asked, changing the subject as he stabbed the air right in front of the scrawled French lettering.

“I’m surprised you don’t know that one, Dean.” Sam replied, with a snort, just as Castiel also answered.

“It means, quite literally from the French, I must leave,” Castiel replied, before shooting Sam a look. “And why should Dean know this? He quite clearly just indicated that he did not.”

“Megadeth, anyone?“ Sam asked, eyebrows raised above his eyes. “A tout le Monde?”

“I do not understand why death should be mega, Sam. Death is quite serious and quite saddening for those left behind. Even for an angel, a death is to be mourned, not rejoiced over,” Castiel replied, morosely.

“He’s talking about the metal band, Cas. You’re not missing much; I‘m not a fan,” Dean sighed through his nose. “Dave Mustaine’s a major douche. Besides, they’re not a patch on Metallica.”

Castiel tilted his head towards Dean, still looking quite unenlightened by Dean’s explanation.

“Remind me of the words again, Sam. You’re better at this foreign shit than I am,” Dean mumbled.

“Ugh, I can’t believe you’re making me do this, Dean. I hate you sometimes, you know,” Sam said, with a grin at the back of Dean’s head when Castiel shot Sam a disapproving look. “Okay, the words go something like this and I refuse to sing them.”

“Can’t be any worse than Mustaine’s singing, Sammy,” Dean broke in with a snort.

“Do you wanna hear this or not?” Sam asked, sounding a little disgruntled.

“Fine, shoot,” Dean replied.

“A tout le monde, a tous mes ami, je vous aime, je dois partir,” Sam reeled off, but as promised, made no attempt at singing.

“Meaning?” Dean prompted.

“To all the world, to all my friends, I love you all, I must leave,” Castiel chipped in before Sam could.

“May I help you?” came a voice from the doorway, a voice that sounded confused.

As one, Dean, Castiel and Sam turned to face the speaker, but only Sam and Dean offered semblances of polite smiles. Castiel remained expressionless and staring, fists pushed deep into the confines of his coat’s pockets. Dean thought then that Castiel looked even more like the naughty schoolboy than ever before, with his unbuttoned collar, wonky tie and mussed up hair and clothing. He resisted the sudden urge to ruffle the soft strands of Castiel’s dark hair and tidy up his clothing, by digging in his pocket for his FBI badge.

“Yeah, we’re here because of the murder this morning? FBI,” Dean said, flipping open the credentials officiously.

“This is England. Why are the FBI here? The police have already done their job and are investigating,” the teacher said, as he came further into room, eyes blinking owlishly behind his glasses.

“Suspicious circumstances,” Dean supplied shortly. “We were stationed here anyway and heard about the APB out on this, so decided to swing by and see if we can offer our assistance. Too much assistance is better than none at all, am I right?”

“If you insist,” the teacher said, sounding a little awed by Dean’s bearing to offer any resistance.

Dean nodded to Sam, who took over, acting the good cop to Dean’s bad cop routine. While Sam kept the teacher busy, Dean and Castiel examined the rest of the room, with the angel shooting glances over towards the experienced hunter every so often, as though searching for cues as to whether he was doing the right thing. He was all too used to the angelic way of steaming in, smiting first and asking questions later, ordered to do so by those higher up the celestial chain than him. Even though he had his own garrison to lead, he still took his orders from someone else.

“Dean,” Castiel hissed, once he’d found something.

The hunter trotted over, and stopped where the angel was standing beside a barred window. Dean gave the window a curious look, finger pointing to the heavy metal bars curiously.

“Why the hell have they got bars on their damn windows? Is it to keep the students in?” Dean asked, in surprise horror. “Are the lessons really that boring?”

“I would not know, Dean,” Castiel replied, flatly. “I have, however, found something that indicated something got through here.”

His slender hand indicated the smear of sulphur that decorated the bland windowsill with a bright yellow powdery splash. Dean exchanged a glance with Castiel, mere seconds before Sam strolled over.

“You get anything?” he asked, peering over their shoulders.

“Only a freaking smear of sulphur, Sammy,” Dean replied, with a triumphant smile. “Seems like there’s demonic activity at work in here, and not just merely ghostly.”

Sam hummed, and stared at the smear in discontent. Then he shook himself, before he said - “We’d best have a look round at the rest of this place, huh?”

“Will do,” Dean said, noncommittally, giving the smear of sulphur one last look.

They trooped upstairs, Dean with his EMF meter in his hands. There were three stories to the building, the middle floor given over to a large auditorium, complete with low level stage butting up against the furthest wall and a seating area ranged before it. Upon the stage sat a drum kit and an old Steinway piano, which Sam fiddled with tunelessly, as Dean swept the area with his meter. Castiel stood upon the stage, soft lighting casting shadows over his form and giving him a borrowed halo about his head. His hands were pushed deep into his coat pockets and he appeared to be staring up at a small window that overlooked the auditorium, situated high above the wall at the back of the auditorium.

“What’s up?” Dean asked, as he finally noticed the direction of the angel’s gaze.

“I thought I saw movement up there,” Castiel replied, deep voice sounding muted in the expanse of the auditorium.

He blinked out suddenly, appearing in the room upstairs, tan coated form clearly seen through the window. Within seconds he was back, expressionless face giving away nothing.

“No one there,” Castiel replied, when Dean looked askance at him.

“Must have been your imagination,” Dean said, to which Sam snorted.

“He’s an angel. I think he’s a bit above having an imagination, Dean,” Sam said, when Dean pinned him with a sharp look. “No offence, Cas.”

“None taken. It is purely a human device to have an overactive imagination, after all,” Castiel acquiesced, demurely.

“Or Vulcan,” Dean muttered, more to himself than to the others. “Are you sure you’re not related to Spock by any chance?”

“I do not know this Spock, Dean,” Castiel replied, wearily, obviously tired of Dean’s continual pop culture references that he was not privy to.

“Trust me, you’d get along with him,” Dean said, with a smirk at the angel. “Nothing here. Best go upstairs. One more floor to check.”

As one they trooped upstairs, and found themselves on a corridor, doors leading off from it on both sides. They peered through each window and saw, in some, students working diligently upon computers and mastering tracks on portable four track recorders. Dean smiled, wistfully, wishing he could join in. They walked along the corridor, Dean sweeping his meter around and yet still didn’t pick up a thing.

They reached the end of the corridor, closed off by a set of double doors. Castiel pushed through them, holding the door open for Dean and letting it slam in Sam’s face. Sam protested loudly much to Dean’s laughing delight, before they peered into a vacant room. Inside was a harp case, which proved to be empty beneath Dean’s curious scrutiny and an upright piano. Dean swept his EMF meter around, while Sam and Castiel crowded in behind him, Sam still complaining loudly.

“Shhhh,” Dean said, suddenly, raising one hand, as the EMF meter began to whine in his hands.

“What? I didn’t hear a thing,” Sam said, before being shushed again by Dean.

Sam took the hint and fell silent, while Castiel listened, head tilted to the side and face pinched with concentration. Outside, a sonorous footstep was clearly heard, heavy and dragging against the floor. Sam peered through the window inset into the door and shook his head, a shrug lifting his shoulders and a quizzical expression clouding his face.

He mouthed - no one there - before he cast a look outside again. They waited, footsteps still dragging ever onwards outside, before the door handle slowly turned. Sam stepped backwards, watching the door carefully, hands raised into fists as though to ward off intruders. The door handle continued to turn, yet the door never swung open and when Sam looked again, no one was outside.

“Huh,” Sam said. “No one there.”

“Freaky,” Dean replied, although he didn’t sound surprised.

Castiel typically remained silent.

“Well, I think we can ascertain something’s here,” Dean said, to fill the silence. “It just doesn’t want to show itself. I vote we go get some food and find out more on what the hell’s going on here. I think we should be safe to do so for a while.”

Sam nodded, distractedly, still staring at the corridor outside, as though he expected whatever had turned the handle to suddenly appear. They made their way down the flight of stairs nearby, a sudden chill creeping across the back of Dean’s neck. He shuddered, goosepimples raising flesh upon his arms, as the sensations shifted, affecting Sam. Castiel remained stoic, dark blue eyes narrowed into liquid lines as he tried to see the thing that surrounded hem. From upstairs, the sounds of dragging feet could be heard again, pounding the floorboards, yet growing no closer.

Sam grunted and they continued on their way, stopping only once to ask directions to the nearest food joint from a passing student. The young girl, carrying a bass guitar and a punky hair-do, shyly told them where to go to get to a local McDonald’s, smiling at Castiel as she did so. He stared back, before attempting a smile when Dean ordered him to harshly.

As they made their way away from the girl, Dean elbowed Castiel, before he said - “That girl was totally into you.”

“She what, Dean?” Castiel asked, blankly.

“She fancied you, Cas,” Sam supplied, as Dean gave a horrified, low moan at Castiel’s inability to even understand the basest of human emotions.

“Ah, I understand,” Castiel said, looking more lost than ever. “I am an angel.”

That last was said, as though trying to convince himself of his status more than Sam or Dean.

“I don’t think she knew that, dude,” Dean said, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “She just liked your big blue eyes and your pretty face, I think.”

“And you haven’t noticed that yourself, Dean?” Sam shot over Castiel’s shoulder. “You just called Castiel pretty, you know.”

“I didn’t hear that, Sammy. Now where was that McDonald’s?” Dean asked, even as Castiel stared at Dean intently.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, but Dean pretended he didn’t know why he was being thanked.

Sam laughed, knowing that Castiel had taken Dean’s statement of being pretty as a compliment, but deigned to comment further when Dean threw him a murderous look over his shoulder. Instead, Sam recounted the directions flawlessly, and they made their way into the town itself. They passed countless shops housed in quaint, old fashioned buildings, the river bisecting neatly through it all, spanned by bridges across the waters. They passed an ancient church, grounds edging onto a bank and a monument standing proudly in a circular paved area, liberally spattered with pigeon droppings. And so they continued into the beating heart of Boston and the promised food-haven known as McDonald’s.

~*~*~*~

The cars of Boston streamed past outside the McDonald’s as Dean cheerfully made his way through his second Big Mac of the last half hour. Castiel had deigned to request a burger also, yet he was daintily nibbling at his meal, fussily wiping his mouth at every other bite, freeing his lips of sauce and grease fastidiously. Sam was only half-heartedly eating his filet o’fish, munching with one hand automatically while scrolling through pages of information on his laptop. Sam had been the only one glad for the WIFI connection around Boston.

He’d found countless pages of information regarding the college itself, and they'd discovered that the Sam Newsom Centre was the smallest building belonging to the much larger campus-sprawl of Boston College. The other two campuses were situated further into more residential areas of town, separated by dual carriageways and the docks, and something which Sam quizzically called Hussey Tower, a ruin that was at the end of the Rochford Campus parking lot. There was no information attached to the article he was reading as to what it even represented, and Dean waived the Tower away as being momentarily unimportant.

It seemed as though as legend had it that the ghost of Sam Newsom Centre was a former employee, back when the building was a working grain mill and before it was converted into various working studios and classrooms. Again, as legend had it, he was a French man, arriving in Boston via the docks nearby, working in the grain mill to send money to his family back home.

He had received word from sources unknown that his wife, still in France, had absconded with the local fisherman, therefore leaving the beleaguered French grain mil worker behind, loitering aimlessly in a Bostonian grain mill. He hadn’t taken the rejection lightly, becoming increasingly despairing and despondent. Finally the depression became too much for him despite his co-worker’s greater efforts to console him and he’d taken his life, in the space directly over where the current music technician now had his office. Dean had shuddered at that point, imagining some long-haired technician diligently working at his computer, while the long distant memory of a French-man’s feet swung mercilessly from a noose in the grain-mill’s past. The elder Winchester wondered how the technician even stood it, or whether he even knew.

Sam went on to reveal that a suicide note had been found with the Frenchman’s body, revealing his woeful tale of an absconded wife, and how he could no longer deal with the depression her infidelity brought about. The note indicated that he still loved his wife, yet still he must leave everything behind. This nugget of information brought an interested note from Dean, who realised the importance of why the words - je dois partir - had been scrawled upon the whiteboard. It seemed the same words had been found at the other murder sites and had nothing to do with Megadeth after all, much to Dean’s relief. They also discovered that in the same suicide note, the Frenchman, obviously heartbroken, had requested that his mortal remains be interred in a local graveyard, which turned out to be St Botolph’s Church, the very same church they’d passed earlier in the afternoon.

When Sam finally brought up the image of the former Frenchman’s absconded wife, Dean’s eyebrows shot up over interested green eyes, for the lady bore a strong resemblance to the murdered students. All were dark haired and blue eyed, all had shy smiles and small statures.

“I think we need to stake out the place this afternoon. Make sure the rest of the student body is safe,” Dean said, from around his mouthful of partially chewed burger.

“That’s not the only body you’ll be watching,” Sam couldn’t help but mutter as he cast a glance towards Castiel, who was fussily picking gherkins from his burger and handing them to Dean who popped them into his mouth without even thinking.

Castiel had already made the discovery that he didn’t like gherkins, cringing slightly and delicately at the sharp and tangy taste, and the soft flesh of the gherkin itself. Dean hadn’t had the problem with it, taking every gherkin Castiel tossed his way.

They finished up their meal in mostly silence, before tossing their rubbish into the bins and walking from the establishment. Dean began to miss the Impala greatly when he had to walk back into town, completely stuffed full of gherkins, meat and fries.

They returned to Sam Newsom centre in the middle of a maelstrom of activity. While they’d been gone, another murder had taken place, this time in the girls bathroom. The body was sprawled across the ground when they arrived, lifeless and staring, blood seeping from a wound slashed across her throat. Upon the mirror, steam stippled the glass, and writing had appeared upon the misty surface, smeared in the same hand that had written upon the whiteboard of earlier. The message was the same - Je dois partir.

“Damnit,” Dean said, whirling away from the sight. “We should have been here.”

“We didn’t know,” Sam said, softly beside him.

Castiel nodded, before he said - “Sam’s right, Dean. You are not to blame here. You did not know this would happen.”

“Cut the celestial bull-crap, Cas, okay?” Dean shouted, attracting the attention of a few milling startled students nearby, tears drying but for an instant from his outburst.

Castiel met with Dean’s angry glare with a calm measured glance, the thinning of his lips the only indication that he was even angry. His eyes remained that usual liquid softness as he stared intently at Dean. He remained utterly still, silent, more like a marble statue than a living flesh and blood vessel housing the multi-dimensional wavelength known as Castiel. Dean, in that moment, realized just what he was going up against and he sagged. Castiel could just as easily snuff him out as easily as Dean could a spider and would take just as little effort to do so.

He turned away with a barked - “Jesus!” - before he threw one hand up in the air to forestall any of Castiel’s ensuing comments.

“And before you say anything, dude, I’m not taking your bro’s name in vain, right?” he said, in disgust. “This whole situation is a mess, okay. This should not have happened, not on my watch.”

“Then stop it,” Castiel said, calmly, voice only bolstered by the steely strength that both Dean and Sam knew was behind that slender body.

“How?” Dean asked.

“You know. You always know. Are you not a hunter, Dean?” Castiel asked, firmly.

“Yeah, the best out there bar none,” Dean spat back.

“Hey,” Sam protested, mildly, yet Dean ignored him completely.

“Then hunt,” Castiel said, simply.

“Fine,” Dean replied, defeat sagging his body, his shoulders into soft lines.

His expression, when he looked up towards Castiel, was tired, weary beyond his thirty years, making the hunter look much older and wiser than he ever had before.

“You’re right,” was all he said.

“I know,” Castiel replied, as though that fact was never in question.

Dean knew that for Castiel it never was. Castiel was sure of himself as he was of the world as he saw it, as he always had seen it. Castiel was ancient, Dean knew, far older than humanity itself, yet it was easy to forget that when looking at a pair of wide, innocent blue eyes and an equally innocent expression. Even Castiel’s actions were innocent, never understanding what it was to be human, and Dean knew then that Castiel didn’t know. He’d never been human, had always been an angel and only knew the wider realm of things, not the literal mud-crawling sensibilities of a mere mortal. Castiel was wise, infinite, and so very, very old, yet even he had a lot to learn in a human’s smaller by comparison sphere of existence.

He turned away, and the tension left the room, tension that Dean only then recognised was even there. Beside him, Sam let out a ragged breath, as though he’d been wary of Castiel delivering the full wrath of an angel upon his brother’s head.

“Awkward,” Sam murmured, as they moved out of the way of a policeman arriving, followed by a whole team of paramedics.

The trio were forced to stand on the sidelines and watch as the policemen interrogated as best they could the witnesses. They learned through listening that the girls, all present in the bathroom hadn’t heard or seen anything, except for Maria, the girl, thrashing around as something slit open her neck. The accompanying girls had tried to help her, yet they stated there was nothing for them to fight; they could not see anything, nor could they feel anything but an overbearingly intense feeling of sadness and ominous prescience. The policeman noted all of this down yet didn’t look as though he believed a word of it. He cast a glance towards one of the paramedics, who murmured as a quiet aside something about shock.

It was then that Sam, Dean and Castiel moved away, to plan out what they were going to do stop it from happening again. As they were talking, the body of the deceased Maria was quietly taken away, yet was given only a cursory glance by Castiel. Between the three of them, they agreed that Castiel and Dean would confront the ghost directly, while Sam would find the deceased Frenchman’s grave to salt and burn the remains. Sam himself had moaned that it was always him that was saddled with that particular task, to which Dean had told him it was because he was so very good at it.

~*~*~*~

Castiel’s touch was cool and firm against Dean’s forehead, fingertips pressing against the skin before a quick flash of light and flurry of wings fanning Dean’s hair announced their arrival inside the Sam Newsom centre. Without needing to speak, Dean led Castiel through the hushed corridors of the music college, footfalls steady and quiet against the exposed wooden floorboards. Dean held a flashlight, lighting his way through the darkness, feeling that very darkness crowding in on him like a mantle. It seemed oppressive in there, worse than it had during the daytime, and the silence and the atmosphere ate away at Dean’s already ragged nerves.

Castiel was as calm as ever, dark blue eyes scanning the shadows and darkness ahead, ever shifting shadows sent skittering and running every which way by Dean’s light. The angel didn’t need the light, however, as his night vision was far more advanced than Dean’s could ever be; where Dean saw inky blackness, Castiel saw shades of grey, easily navigable to an angel’s higher perception.

He caught Dean when he stumbled against an otherwise unseen obstacle, which proved to be an abandoned guitar case when Dean turned his light upon it with a curse. Dean nodded his thanks to Castiel and yet didn’t protest when Castiel kept one slender guiding hand upon his shoulder, gently steering him out of the way of other obstacles, easily seen by angel and not hunter.

Eventually they came to the technician’s office, locked to the world although not for long. Castiel’s strong grip snapped the lock and the couple entered. They were met by a pair of ghostly feet swinging under a false momentum, thrown there from distant years in the past. The Frenchman’s body described an eerie tableau, lit from some sepulchral light that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. The body rocked upon a self imposed hangman’s noose, grain sack long since kicked way by a workman’s boot, eyes sightless and staring at nothing and everything, a thousand mile stare that was helpless and infinitely wise and weary.

“Dude,” Dean said, involuntarily as he flinched backwards from the sight.

Castiel merely stared up at the swinging spirit, mouth pressed into a thin line as his shoulders rose and fell. Suddenly the shade’s eyes focussed and snapped to attention, focussing upon Dean’s face first and then Castiel. The ghost’s mouth stretched into a silent scream and he pointed at the angel accusingly.

“You,” the spirit moaned. “Where were you when I needed you, monsieur?”

“You did not call me. You called for no one,” Castiel replied, calmly, even as Dean shot him a puzzled look.

“What?” the hunter asked, quietly.

“He needed guidance during his moment of need, yet he called on no angel nor God for help,” Castiel explained quietly.

“Right. I’m gonna pretend that makes sense,” Dean said, with a snort.

“It will, one day,” Castiel replied, enigmatically.

“Okay, Cheerful Charlie,” Dean said, with an almost audible eye-roll.

“Aidez-moi,” the spirit moaned, as it floated down, eyes simultaneously staring sightlessly at nothing and focussing eerily upon Dean and Castiel.

The effect was spooky and shouldn’t have worked yet totally did. Dean shuddered as the ghost’s presence wrapped around him like a cold and clammy sheet, sending endless shivers through his very soul. Castiel seemed unperturbed by the sensations that flowed against his vessel and threatened his Grace. He pushed the spirit away angrily, sending a faint warning flow of bright white power to block the spirit from trying anything again.

“You will not harm us. We are here to help you. You do not belong here, do you understand?” Castiel barked at the Frenchman‘s spirit.

“Comprendez?” Dean chipped in.

“Wrong language, Dean,” Castiel smiled. “In French, it’s “comprenez-vous?”

“Yeah? Smart ass,” Dean shot back, with a scowl

Castiel lifted his shoulders in an easy shrug and turned back to the spirit.

“Leave. Now,” Castiel said.

“I cannot,” the ghost replied, sadly. “Mon amour, she is still here. I must find her, go to her and win her back.”

“You cannot. She belongs to another,” Castiel replied, insistently.

“She’s dead, Jim,” Dean offered.

“What now?” Castiel asked, turning a confused smile upon Dean.

“Star Trek? Dr McCoy? It’s one of his famous catchphrases,” Dean replied, hopeless in the face of Castiel’s growing indignation. “He’s dead, Jim.”

“Dean, perhaps it would be wise if you just kept silent for a while,” Castiel sighed.

Dean harrumphed, but kept his silence nonetheless.

“Your beau has gone. She left you, did not want you any longer. She is with us now,” Castiel said to the ghost. “She is with the Host, where she belongs. You must go to her, stop killing those who you‘ve taken without due cause. These girls, they do not belong to you. They are not your lost one.”

The spirit stared at Castiel as though he did not understand him, large, soulful, transparently brown eyes blinking sorrowfully at the angel.

“You can go home now, walk amongst the fields that are calling your name. Susette is waiting for you, now,” Castiel continued, deep voice gentle, yet still commanding.

Dean stood by watching, impressed by his friend’s words and his demeanour as he gentled the spirit into accepting his lot. He heard Castiel’s voice shift from English into Enochian, harsh sounds reverberating through the air between them. Dean always liked it when Castiel spoke in his native tongue; though the sounds might have been harsh, dissonant vowels rasped in a gruff voice, the words still were strangely beautiful and soothing to Dean’s ears. He had vague memories of that voice, as Castiel talked to him, while dragging him from Perdition and attempting to soothe and calm the screaming soul of Dean on the way.

Dean was dragged out of his reverie by the sight of flames licking at the spirit’s non-corporeal remains, aided by the unseen Sam in the midst of the nearby graveyard. The elder Winchester sagged in relief, glad that despite his earlier protestations, Sam had done his job as well as he always had.

Dean watched as the flames flickered across the ghostly pale surface of the shade’s transparent body mass, dispassionately, listening jaw tightening at the horrific sounds of the ghosts infernal screaming. Castiel remained as straight as ever, watching dispassionately as the ghost withered away to nothing.

“It’s over,” Dean said, not without some relief.

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed, and fell silent.

They remained silent for a time, standing in reverent silence for the passed Frenchman. Then Dean nodded to the angel and waited for Castiel to transport him to where Sam was, drenched from the rain in the middle of St Botolph’s graveyard. Sam looked a question at Dean and Dean nodded, confirmed that the man had gone on his way, to which Sam sagged in relief.

“We did it,” he said.

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed again. “Your journey here is done. You may go home now.”

They waited until Castiel reached forward and pressed the pads of his slender fingertips against the Winchesters’ foreheads, transporting them back to Bobby’s house, and directly into sleep. When Dean stirred in the morning, he found himself wondering if it had been all a dream, yet one single thing convinced him that it hadn’t been. A small set of postcards had been left by his pillow, all emblazoned with pictures of the sights he’d seen while in the English Boston. On each and every one, Castiel had written his own name in meticulously flowing Enochian script, as though to remind Dean of his overseas adventure.

Dean had to snort out a chuckle at that, before he said - “Thanks, Cas.”

Even though Castiel himself was no longer there, Dean knew, somehow, that the angel had heard him anyway.

~~ the end ~~


End file.
